Everyone has their own stories to tell and only them decide whom they want to share it with or whether they want to share it at all. I have those too. And by stories I mean all the things you see and experience. The fluctuations. The tragedy. The irony. The struggle to finish the line or even to start at all. Those days when you walk down the street, with your mind empty, and your hands so cold, not knowing where to go. Telephone calls you have been meaning to have, just to hear that familiar voice that broke your heart all over again, but are too drowned in your own ego to even pick up the phone. The night you spend with someone that even though everything seem so dark and pitch black, you still manage to see the sparks. Or when you are alone in some streets you are not familiar with, and just seeing people passing by, wondering what's on their minds. Their streaming tears, their burning passion, their flaming thoughts. Their very own life story.
Why is it so easy for some people to tell stories?
And I'm truly asking this because I didn't know. One time my uber driver told me he decided to quit his job from a company because he no longer saw any future prospect from it anymore. He told me this in details. I didn't respond so much. In fact I'm glad that I could respond to his story at all because I happen to know a little about the company he used to work for. I didn't know why he was so comfortable telling this. But then I figured, some people at some point are all alone. And sometimes, it is because they choose it to be that way. There are just stories you can't tell to anyone but strangers. And it's not only about the problems in your life. I've heard a story from a stranger about how he is so in love with his wife and children. He showed me a picture of them together from his phone wallpaper. At first I was like, where's this guy going with this? But from his voice I knew he couldn't wait for the train to stop so he can finally meet his family. What I'm saying is that strangers are like a diary on a piece of tissue paper. You found it at some table, write about whatever it is on your mind, and just hoping no one will ever use that very tissue paper. Because you don't know where the tissue actually come from or where they're going to go. But in the mean time, you have them, and you just write your story.
He wasn't looking for a handout
He didn't want my money neither
Tired of speaking to the walls
Everybody needs to talk
I listen to this song as I'm writing this.
He is a stranger to me as much as I am a stranger to him. But what I think makes him so comfortable is that the fact that I don't know him. He didn't care if I'm gonna judge him, as much as I didn't care about his life problems, because there is zero point zero zero zero zero one percent I will ever see him again. Do I wanna know his problem? No, but I don't mind being a listener. That's what we need once in a while, to be heard.
Sometimes when I watch a movie or see people walking pass the street, I ponder, about what it would be like to be them. Who they're bringing that huge bouquet of flowers to. Or what makes that young couple sitting on the bench laugh so hard their wrinkles start showing. Having deep conversations with people makes me realise that not everything is always as it seems. No one is truly happy or truly sad. You are struggling and I am too. We all are. And as I'm writing this, I know I have stacks of tissue papers to write on. You, who happens to read this, are all my tissue paper. Most of you don't personally know me, and I don't specifically know who you are. But thank you for reading my thoughts for the night.
Turned out it's already 4 in the morning. I should probably go to sleep now.
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